Donald Trump might be an awful president but he’s got 1 thing spot on | UK | News

I broke bread this week with a trio of Italians and an American at a lakeside house in Montreux. Talk turned to sensitive subjects. I joked that sex, money, politics and religion tended to be, in my day, the classic no-go zones. My mother would never tolerate dinnertime vulgarity. For the maintenance of harmony and the avoidance of embarrassment, we were restricted to topics considered safe. Such as? Football, I said. We used to talk a lot about football.

Cue mirth, as conversation erupted into the decline of America’s global dominance. There ensued a verbal execution of Donald Trump as the architect of mass societal dysfunction. All eyes turned to the American, as if to taunt. What was his take? “Trump lies, brazenly and unflinchingly,” he said, “because he is well aware that 50% of us [Americans] are hanging on his every utterance and believing whatever he states.” Say what you mean, I deadpanned. “He is the American Hitler, responsible for the downfall of our country,” he elaborated. Which was a relief, because you can never tell if there’s a MAGA in the room.

“Some claim he’s a Russian agent, charged with destroying the power of the US,” he spat. “Others reckon he’s a driving force for Chinese growth. What I and many others know is that he is an incompetent, treacherous and malignant narcissist, an economic vandal, and the worst thing to befall our country in its 250-year history.”

I stared out over shimmering Lake Geneva at the majestic Alps, luminous blue in the encroaching twilight. A fairy-lit schooner slid past in the distance. A corner of the world out there seemed silent and paused on peace. Within, fury raged. I recalled the Brexit years. The Covid era. Whole families disagreed, some falling out terminally. Perhaps there had been a good reason behind my mother’s rule regarding mealtime talk.

On the other hand, I wondered, could Trump’s flagrant dismissal of dignity and propriety be the single thing about him that right-thinking folk might find to admire? Because how can anything change if we pretend it doesn’t exist? Aren’t pussyfooting, fannying about, political correctness and the turning of blind eyes the very stances that have got our own country into such a bloody mess? Antisemitism surged because people feared saying the unsayable.

The sex and gender debate became so toxic because we wouldn’t admit that a woman couldn’t have a penis, or agree that “pregnant person” was an inclusion too far. While not everyone who conceives identifies as a woman, and the rights and dignity of transgender and non-binary people must be the same as for everybody else, it took a Supreme Court ruling this year to determine that “sex” refers to biological sex as recorded at birth, and not to legal gender.

Only biological women can be pregnant. At least that. Trump may be venal and a threat to democracy in the eyes of much of the Western world but you have to admit he has put conversation back on the agenda. No topic too deadly. No holds barred.

And perchance, to borrow from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, well in with a chance of being hoisted by his own petard.

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Have you listened to Bill Nighy’s podcast yet? What a hoot. There he sits, immaculately suited and booted, posing as an agony uncle and dispensing advice to listeners on a vast array of so-what subjects, from what to wear on a plane to how to choose the right pair of specs to what’s the best song to play air guitar to.

Billed as “for people who don’t get out much and can’t handle it when they do”, it’s a soaraway hit. But why? Nighy, 75, is single, never has friends round and never cooks. Despite his 50-year career, he never wanted to be an actor. Though he has never struck me as a misanthrope, that is precisely what he appears to be.

I love him. Are most of us secretly like him?

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Benedict Cumberbatch declares his refusal to send his kids to boarding school. He is absolutely right. Boarding School Syndrome remains the blight of many denied a normal home life. Torn from their mother’s arms, in some cases as young as seven or eight, many were drilled, regimented, punished, starved of affection and subjected to cruelty and abuse.

The account by Earl Spencer, Princess Diana’s brother, of his own educational experiences is harrowing. I have several friends who were subjected to similarly unthinkable torment. Some of their parents who were employed in the Armed Forces sent their children away because they had no choice.

Others did so because they themselves had been sent, and it was considered the done thing. But why have children in the first place if your intention is only ever to offload the bulk of responsibility for their upbringing to total strangers?

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Jimmy Cliff was reggae’s first international superstar. The Bob Marley legend has long suggested otherwise. Marley’s death at 36 from cancer in 1981 cemented him as the global symbol of Jamaican music and a Rastafarian icon.

But it was Cliff who paved the way. He took the chances, carried the torch, climbed the barriers and strained across culture and race into the mainstream. Many know his hits You Can Get it if You Really Want and Wonderful World, Beautiful People. If you’ve never seen The Harder They Come, the 1972 picture in which Jimmy starred and for which he created the soundtrack, pull it up. Feast your eyes and ears.

Pre-internet, long before YouTube, Cliff transcended. He triumphed. He died this week in Kingston, aged 81. He had been writing songs since he was a little boy. He had the music in him. Always did.

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Brian May reveals a plan to turn Queen into an ABBA Voyage-style extravaganza in Las Vegas, thus giving younger generations the chance to experience the thrill of the band in their heyday. He and drummer Roger Taylor are exploring a hologram show that would bring back the late Freddie Mercury and retired bassist John Deacon using advanced technology. It’s early days but watch the fans go ape. Er, hello.

There’s a plethora of live performance videos to watch. Yes, I know they all rave about the ABBA show. I went to see it too, but it left me cold. So I wasn’t transported back to the band’s live brilliance, then? Not for a New York minute. Taylor and May should sit this one out. It’s not as though they need the money.